Saturday, December 27, 2014

Semi-annual, at least. This is the doctor's visit that requires at least three pre-appointment shots (of Buttery Nipples, of course), one run through the rosary and at least seven good glances of Dirk Diggler's dong in Boogie Nights. It is a wonder that us biddies even manage to make it out of bed on the morning of this barbaric violation.

Your day begins with going through the list of various scenarios that would make it okay for you to cancel the inevitable 10 AM appointment.

"UGH, I have a huge deadline at work coming up, gotta cancel!"

"I have no more Special K cereal left in the house, it is absolutely vital that I pick it up from the grocery store at precisely 10 AM."

"Today is just not a good day, it's the thirteenth anniversary of my pet bird's death (Mr. Jerry). It also just happens to be the thirteenth anniversary of the day that we bought him."

"My vagina is in a very bashful mood this morning, I just can not do that to my precious baby right now."

"ISIS"

"FEMINISM"

"CHARLIE SHEEN"

Just about anything you can think of...

But then, you realize, all this will do is delay the inevitable sense of degradation and humiliation you will feel while your feet are in those fateful stirrups, your junk is under a spotlight and you have some stranger's face directly staring at your lady parts. Judging, inspecting and probing you at your, arguably, worst angle ever.

So, you just bite the bullet, and you get your ass (and vagina) to the doctor's office only to wait in waiting room for what feels like a million and one episodes of Friends. What's more, everyone in the doctor's office seems to be staring at you because they know you are about to be penetrated by a metal object that looks like a swan's beak (and not in a good way!!!!)

Then... just when you were getting settled into your chair, just when you were really getting into your People magazine article about Kourtney Kardashian's newborn demon in the making, your name is called. After this, things begin to become a blur.

A blur of peeing into a cup, finding out you have gained 15 pounds since your last visit and finally... and the most terrifying... getting butt ass naked. Once you are naked, the struggle becomes real, the struggle becomes impending and you realize it is no longer a distant thing to be anxious about, but rather, a thing that is in your immediate future. Nothing can save you now, nothing can stop what is about to happen.

After a series of unimportant sexual questions by a nurse (sometimes even the perplexing occasional, "are you post-menopausal yet?") you are left in the room with your own thoughts. They say that during this time you can see your whole life flash before you but... I see nothing. All I see is that tube of lube, the speculum and those stirrups below me--taunting me, mocking me and ruining any chance I had for happiness (for next thirty minutes...) The lube seems to whispering "Jules, you are nothing... you mean nothing... you will never amount to anything"... and the speculum seems to agree.

And then... the doctor enters. Energetic (A LITTLE TOO ENERGETIC) and happy (A LITTLE TOO HAPPY), just ready to tackle the day, one vagina at a time. She immediately tells you to lie back and to place your feet into the stirrups, the stirrups that you have been eying all along, the evil stirrups of...evilness. And there you are... in all of your glory...

As you are being probed you hear the, "Relax, just relax...breathe," over and over and over and over and over and over. AND ALL YOU CAN FUCKING THINK IS, HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO RELAX?! How, in the name of Jesus H Christ himself, can I fucking relax?

But, you try, you really do because at the end of the day, what choice do you have but to try?

You try to think of nicer thoughts: s'mores, bunnies, a fresh box of Crayola crayons, the smell of a Christmas tree, Harry Styles's hair, the song "Party in the USA," marathons of America's Next Top Model, slapping Taylor Swift... not being here...getting robbed... death... I mean, you are literally grasping at straws and then--- then the door opens, as a nurse barges in, revealing your vagina for the entire doctor's office to see... (but at least I got a thumbs up from a nice looking fellow just trying to be supportive). Yes, that actually happened.

But I digress, after a series of curse words, derogatory slurs and cries for your mother, you are finally finished with the probe. You are on top of the world, you are queen of biddyland right now because it will not be for another year that you will subjected to this nightmare of vaginal oppression.

You are out of that doctor's office like a bat out of hell. You practically are running to your car and speeding out of the parking lot--liberated and redeemed, a hero in your own world.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

I have said it once (more like a million times) and I will say it again: there is something very, very wrong with Jimmy Fallon. Even during his days on SNL, I could always tell that there was something quite amiss with that fellow.

You may be asking, why should we believe you? What do you know about people having PROBLEMS? Well, I know a lot, if you must ask. I can spot a bad seed from a mile away. In fact, I have quite a history of weeding out the bad eggs. For instance, at a young age I was completely terrified of Bill Cosby on The Cosby Show. I have never been one to trust a person who talks like a prophet.

I was in tune to his rapey ways at such a young age and here I stand before you with a big ol', "I told you so!"

Then there was the priest dad on that 7th Heaven show. It is hard to believe that I was the only person who could tell he was a child molester. Some may say he was just an avid method actor and got way too into the whole "priest role," but I think he was just a bad seed to begin with. I could hardly watch that show without getting the chills. 7th Heaven nightmares plagued my childhood and landed me in therapy week after week. I was tortured by 7th Heaven, a slave to the Camden family's drama.

I had to stop watching. It was just too much for such a young girl to bear. And here we all are, years later, talking about what I knew all along.

Okay, but back to the absolute horror that we call: Jimmy Fallon. This is a man that everyone has been tricked into thinking is a sane human being, with human emotions and blood running through his veins. No, people, Jimmy Fallon is a sociopathic maniac and you heard it from me right here, right now.

Jimmy Fallon has never changed his facial expression once. His face seems to be frozen into a vague, unemotional, ambiguous mold that shows no sign of any type of feeling anytime soon. His eyes are black holes, holes of nothingness, holes of terror, holes of... doom.

I heard a news story, about a year back, that Jimmy Fallon was stabbed by a man on the street and he did not even bleed. The man who stabbed him was absolutely terrified. He quickly reported to the police that Jimmy Fallon's facial expression showed no sign of pain, sadness or even anger when he stabbed him! In fact, Jimmy Fallon replied with one of his usual robotic jokes and then kept right on walking.

Disturbing, I know.

Now, I am not trying to alarm you all and I am not trying to cause trouble. However, recently, I had a very disconcerting dream about Jimmy Fallon. A dream that I can not shake from thoughts, a dream that has stayed with me. Long story short, my dream more or less revealed that Jimmy Fallon was and is the Zodiac Killer. I woke up screaming, uncontrollably. I had the image of Jimmy Fallon's face, covered with blood (and semen) imprinted in my brain for the entire next day.

And that is when it occurred to me... Jimmy Fallon IS the Zodiac Killer. He must be. All signs point to yes on this one. I mean here he is, with his creepy jokes and his suits, playing mister "nice-nice," when all a long he's been slaughtering people left and right!

So maybe Jimmy Fallon was not born until after these killings began but that's neither here nor there... he could be lying about his age anyways. Who knows what else he has lied about?!?!

I for one do not want to wait around for when he strikes next. I am a Scorpio, after all, and everyone knows that Scorpios are always the ones sacrificed first. Jimmy Fallon must be stopped. Jimmy Fallon must be exposed for what he truly is...

Friday, December 12, 2014

I write to you today with a heavy heart and a heavy flow (just kidding, but I AM especially bitchy today, so beware!) But mostly, with a heavy heart. Well, not JUST a heavy heart, but also a great deal of confusion and perplexment (yes, perplexment is now a word!)

I write to you today to talk about the most popular and highly anticipated, annual meeting of the minds. This is a gathering of intellectuals near and far. At this event, we have all of our modern day Aristotles (if you will), joining together to answer the BIG questions and discuss PRESSING matters. Matters such as:

Is a push-up bra the answer to world hunger?

Are g-strings more practical than thongs?

How do you wear nipple tassels but still keep it tasteful and wholesome?

No, I am not talking about the State of the Union, but good guess! We are talking about The Victoria's Secret Fashion show--the single most important event of every dumb biddy's life! Yes, more important than Valentine's Day and even more important than the opening day for the movie 50 Shades of Gray (and, let me tell you, that is an IMPORTANT day!)

This year, Victoria's Secret fashion show received the same irrational attention as it has every other year. For straight men or lesbian women this attention is understandable and kind of whatever. But, I can not for the LIFE of me accept the obsession that straight dumb biddies insist on having with this fashion show.

Some may argue that it has to do with a woman's vanity. As a straight and severely jealous (to the point of practically needing to be locked up with a straight jacket) biddy myself, I understand this sentiment. One can not HELP but gaze enviously at woman who has been blessed with perfect tits, a perfect washboard stomach, a perfect face and who is just all around, you know, perfect. However, I am not going to sit here and lie to you and say that this makes me happy for them or that it makes me happy in general.

In my humble opinion, these moronic biddies who plague the country, swallowing up all our air and using all of our Essie nail polish, are full of doggy doo-doo. They do not LOVE Adriana Lima or want to see her succeed in being hot. They are merely PRETENDING to have some kind of "sisterly camaraderie" because that is their cute little "feministy" defining moment.

(*said in an English accent*)"Oh, Adriana, I am so HAPPY for you that you turned out to be the perfect human being, carved by angels and shitting flowers. Here I am just little old me with my cellulite-ridden ass and bacne haunting my life (even though I am at least fifteen years past puberty) but I rest peacefully knowing that you do not suffer from the human condition of blemishes, fat and poop that smells like, well, poop."
Yes, let us continue this elaborate ruse that we are celebrating other women's beauty by watching this ridiculous fashion show year after year.

Yes, let us continue to pretend that we do not dread the day, every year, where we are reminded that our push-up bras that we purchased from Victoria's Secret do not come with the breasticles that the models have been advertising (these accessories are apparently sold separately... batteries not included).

Yes, let us continue to celebrate a mindless, pointless fashion show that makes us hate being naked in front of even our pet hermit crabs.

AND, for the love of everything holy, let us continue to celebrate the Taylor Swift disease that is far worse than any Ebola outbreak...